


Playing Truant

by npeg



Series: 2 + 2 Equals [3]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Escaping crowds, Formalwear, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-18
Updated: 2012-10-18
Packaged: 2017-11-16 13:44:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/npeg/pseuds/npeg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve hates these fancy functions. They make him feel like a dancing monkey all over again. So he steps out for a breather.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing Truant

The night air is cool against his skin. A thousand scents assail him and he wonders how exactly he managed without the ability to feel such depth of things before the serum changed him. The scents caught in the air could almost paint a picture of his surroundings without Steve even needing to open his eyes. And they do.

His hair brushes across his face as the wind catches it, tickling his nose. He brushes it absent-mindedly aside.

He hates these fancy functions. The glitz, the glamour, the insufferable brown-nosing of people with too much money and not enough class, rubbing up against each other in a shallow, drunken stupor, draping themselves in their wealth as if that actually means something. It's practically obscene. And for a kid that grew up in the Depression, used to having next to nothing, to never having enough of _anything _–__  it's a little too much to cope with sometimes. It's an insult to what he had to live through. And yet he can't quite bring himself to blame them for being so ruined by their material wealth. He'd seen it in his own time, though much more rarely, and he saw it here, too. It was one thing that time hadn't changed, but he couldn't bring himself to be comforted by that fact.

But if he's honest, the worst thing of all is the fact that the way they trot him out at these vile things makes him feel like a dancing monkey all over again. And he hates that with a passion.

Sometimes there are so many people pressing in around him, crowding him, demanding his attention and his time, that his chest gets just a little too tight and he just needs to _leave_.

So he makes some feeble excuse and slips as quietly as he can from the crush, to a fire escape, a back door, a stage entrance (oh, the irony), or sometimes _–_  like tonight, to a balcony.

He takes in a long, deep breath and exhales slowly, savouring the myriad of scents as they wash over him, and for a moment he feels like he can almost taste the night. It calms him, and it's almost enough.

 

He feels a presence appear beside him and knows from the sudden heady fragrance of that familiar cologne who it is that stands there.

“Tony,” he nods.

“Not enjoying the party, Rogers?” The man at his side enquires, and Steve can hear the ice chinking in his glass as he swirls it, can smell the cologne on his skin, the whisky on his lips. He smiles slightly, eyes still closed.

“It’s just the, y’know, the crowds… You know what I’m like in, uh…” He makes a vague gesture with his hand in the air, and Tony chuckles.

“High society? Polite company? Yeah I know, I know. I hate these people, too.”

He hears Tony turn to face him, back leaning up against the railing he stands beside. He opens his eyes slowly, and the sight of Tony – in some very fine tailoring, he notes – brings a smiling curling to his lips. The man certainly knows how to dress, if nothing else.

The billionaire takes a sip of his drink and waves around him at the balcony.

“How long’re you planning on hiding out here in the shrubbery, Rogers?”

There is laughter in his eyes as he asks, and Steve allows himself a somewhat dark chuckle as well.

“If I was allowed? If this _wasn’t_ a function that specifically required _my_ presence?”

He stares out at the horizon and murmurs,

“All night.”

A sigh escapes him.

 

Silhouetted against the glowing city at night, Steve really does cut an impressive figure. Broad shoulders, long, long legs, and every inch of him strong and sure.  _He looks damn good in a tux_ , Tony thinks to himself.

He swirls the whisky glass in his hand.

“Y'know, you only have to say the word and I can whisk us out of here.”

 

Steve blinks up at him.

“What, ditch the party?” He asks, quizzical.

“Sure,” Tony shrugs, “Why not.”

“But I'm the guest of honour.”

Tony looks amused.

“So? You’ve done your bit. You showed up, let people paw at you with their sweaty little hands. You've been here for six hours straight, Steve, putting up with this crap. God knows that's longer than I have, and I'm used to it, I'm practically immune to the bullshit. I know how much you hate these things.”

Steve makes to open his mouth to protest but the billionaire raises a finger, shushing him, “Ah, ah, don't even _try_ to lie,” so he purses his lips instead.

Tony shrugs again, “I think you’ve done enough for one night.”

 

And after a moment, Steve’s mouth spreads into a smile of gratitude so wide that Tony wonders how it doesn’t hurt.

Grinning, the captain says, “Well, when you put it like that, I suppose I could justify a swift exit. Think they’ll miss me?”

And Tony smiles back, “Oh I know they will, Captain. You’re the belle of the ball. But they’ll live… Most likely.”

He hails Happy with a brief swipe of his fingertips across the screen of his phone, finishes his drink, and sets the glass down on the balcony railing.

Then, he proffers his elbow to the much taller man, who can’t help but laugh at the gesture. Tony smiles.

“Shall we?”

 


End file.
